A slight but unmistakable frisson went through William at that “when you’re wearing it,” together with an instantaneous vision of her slender finger slowly moving from beetle to beetle, over his chest. He wasn’t imagining it; Papa had glanced sharply at Amaranthus when she said it. There was no sign of intentional flirtation on her face, though; her eyes were fixed on the steaming dish of kippers as it was set down before her.

William took a dollop of mustard and pushed the pot over to her.

“Beetles and finery notwithstanding,” he said, “I can’t be wearing gray velvet breeches to clear out a shed with Cinnamon, which is my chief errand today.”

“Actually not, William,” said Lord John, lending his name the lightest touch of irony. “Your presence is required at luncheon with General Prévost.”

William’s kipper-loaded fork stopped halfway to his mouth.

“Why?” he asked warily. “What the devil has General Prévost got to do with me?”

“Nothing, I hope,” his father said, reaching for the mustard. “He’s a decent soldier, but what with a heavy Swiss accent and no sense of humor, having a conversation with him is like pushing a hogshead of tobacco uphill. However …” Lord John added, peering over the table. “Do you see the pepper pot anywhere? … However, he’s entertaining a party of politicals from London at present, and a couple of Cornwallis’s senior officers have come down from South Carolina to meet them.”

“And …?”

“Aha—got you!” Lord John said, lifting a napkin and discovering the pepper pot under it. “And I hear that one Denys Randall—alias Denys Randall-Isaacs—is to be one of the party. He sent me a note this morning, saying that he understood you were staying with me, and would I be so kind as to bring you with me and Hal to lunch, he having procured an invitation for you.”

IT WAS HOT and muggy, but clouds were gathering overhead, casting a welcome shade.

“I doubt it will rain before teatime,” Lord John said, glancing up as they left the house. “Do you want a cloak for the sake of your new waistcoat, though?”

“No.” William’s mind was not on his clothes, fine as they were. Nor was it really on Denys Randall; whatever Randall had to say, he’d hear it soon enough. His mind was on Jane.

He’d avoided walking down Barnard Street since he and Cinnamon had reached Savannah. The garrison headquarters was in a house on Barnard, no more than half a mile from Number 12 Oglethorpe Street. Across the square from headquarters was the commander’s house, a large, fine house with an oval pane of glass set in the front door. And growing in the center of the square was a huge live oak, bearded with moss. The gallows tree.