Preston sat back as two footmen arrived with the soup. “This is not the time or the place for such discussions,” Preston said, peering round a bowl descending in front of him. “But if you should be at leisure later, my lord, I should be most grateful if you would tell me what you can about your cousin and the conditions in which he was held. If—if it is not too painful,” he added hastily, with another glance at Uncle Hal.

“I should be happy to,” William said, taking up his silver soup spoon and essaying the lobster bisque. “Perhaps … we might meet at the Arches this evening? The Pink House, you know. I shouldn’t want to cause my uncle distress.” He glanced at Uncle Hal, too—his uncle appeared to be experiencing indigestion, whether of a physical or spiritual nature, and Papa was regarding his soup with a very fixed expression.

“Of course.” Mr. Preston glanced quickly at the duke and lowered his voice. “I—hesitate to ask, but do you think that your father might perhaps accompany you later? His experience with prisoners was of course some time ago, but—”

“Prisoners?” William felt something small and hard bob in his midsection, as though he’d inadvertently swallowed a golf ball. “My father?”

Mr. Preston blinked, taken back.

“Forgive me, my lord. I had thought—”

“That doesn’t matter.” William waved a hand. “What did you mean, though; his experience with prisoners?”

“Why—Lord John was the governor of a prison in Scotland, perhaps … twenty, twenty-five, perhaps … years ago? Now, what was the name … oh, of course. Ardsmuir. You did not know that? Dear me, I do beg your pardon.”

“Twenty-five years ago,” William repeated. “I—suppose some of the prisoners might have been Jacobite traitors, from the Rising?”

“Oh, indeed,” Mr. Preston said, looking happier now that it seemed William was not offended. “Most of them, as I recall. I have written one or two small books on the subject of prison reform, and the handling of the Jacobite prisoners comprised a significant portion of my researches. I—could tell you a bit more about it, perhaps … this evening? Shall we say at ten o’clock?”

“Charmed,” William said cordially, and put the spoon full of cold soup into his mouth.

45

Not Quite like Leprosy

LORD JOHN LIFTED A spoonful of hot soup and held it suspended to cool, not removing his gaze from the gentleman sitting across the table from him, next to Prévost. He could feel Hal vibrating next to him and wondered briefly whether to spill the soup on Hal’s leg, as a means of getting him out of the dining room before he said or did something injudicious.

Their erstwhile stepbrother, who had just been introduced to them as the Cavalier Saint-Honoré, couldn’t help but be aware of their reaction to his presence, but he preserved a perfect sang-froid, letting his gaze pass vacantly over the brothers Grey, meeting neither one’s eyes. He was chatting to Prévost in Parisian French, and so far as Grey could tell, was actually pretending to be a Frenchman, damn his eyes!