“Fine.” William jerked the boot off and nearly shot backward off the campaign chest he was sitting on. He tossed the muddy boot on the hearth rug and inspected his chest, to be sure his beetles had suffered no damage. “Where the devil is Sir Henry keeping himself these days?”

“New York, for the moment,” Hal said, sticking out his other foot. “I’d bet reasonable money that Tarleton is still with him. Tarleton’s cavalry riders were Clinton’s new toy at Monmouth, and I doubt he’s had all his fun with them yet.”

William grunted as the second boot came off, and laid it with its fellow on the rug.

“So, shall I write to Tarleton directly, care of Sir Henry?”

John and Hal exchanged glances.

“I think I would,” Hal said, with a slight shrug. “Just don’t put anything in the letter that you don’t want the world to know about. Some clerks are discreet and a hell of a lot of them aren’t.”

“Speaking of which,” John said, eyeing his son. “Would it be indiscreet of us to ask why you want to find Banastre Tarleton?”

William shook his head, then smoothed the dislodged cowlick back into the dark mass of his hair.

“Denys Randall told me at the luncheon yesterday that it was Ban Tarleton who first got the letter from Middlebrook Encampment about Ben dying there. He evidently gave it to Ezekiel Richardson, and thus—” He made a spiraling gesture indicating the letter’s eventual arrival to Hal’s hand. “So I want to know why Tarleton got it, and how.”

“Very reasonable,” Hal agreed. “But I doubt it’ll be that easy.” He lowered his brows and stared at William, very directly. “What I tell you goes no further, William. Not to your Indian friend, your lover—if you have one, and no, I don’t want to know—or anyone else.”

William refrained from rolling his eyes, but only just. John looked down to hide a smile.

“Tace is the Latin for a candle,” William said obligingly, and laid a hand over his mouth. “My lips are sealed.”

Hal snorted, but nodded.

“Right. Sir Henry is tired of making feints at the Americans around New York and Virginia. He wants a bold stroke, and he’s got his eye upon Charles Town. If he hasn’t already left New York to go take it from the Americans, he will, within the next few months.”

“Who told you that?” John asked, surprised.

“Three different men at luncheon, all of whom begged me to keep it quiet.”

“I see what you mean about discretion, Uncle,” William said, openly amused.

“I,” said Hal coldly, “am the Colonel of His Majesty’s Forty-sixth Regiment of Foot. You are …” His voice trailed off as he gazed at William, bareheaded and slightly rumpled in his civilian finery, but still with the straight-backed bearing of a soldier.

I don’t suppose that will ever leave him, John thought. It hasn’t left his father.