“If the Americans win,” Fergus said, sounding skeptical. “If they don’t, I fear your ‘interests’ will be in a precarious position. As would I.”

“They’ll win.” The lawyer hadn’t spoken since greeting them, and his voice gave Roger a start. It was deep, and assured, in contrast with Beauchamp’s light charm.

“You’re a rebel, are you not, Mr. Fraser?” The lawyer raised a brow at Fergus. “That is certainly the impression given by your newspaper. Have you no faith in your own cause?”

Fergus raised his hook and scratched delicately behind one ear.

“I assume you have noticed that the streets are filled with Continental soldiers, sir. Should I put my family in danger by advocating their confusion in print?”

He didn’t wait for an answer to this question, but rose suddenly to his feet.

“Bonjour, messieurs,” he said. “You have given me much to think about.”

ROGER FELT A strong inclination to be somewhere else, and thus didn’t question Fergus’s plunging suddenly into a narrow alley between two houses, running down it, and zigging through a gate into the backyard of what appeared to be a brothel, judging from the laundry hanging limply in the humid air. He was somewhat surprised when Fergus, with a cordial word to two black maidservants folding sheets, went up the back steps and entered the house without knocking.

“Mr. Fergus!” cried a young lady, running down the hall toward him. The girl—God, she couldn’t be more than twelve, could she?—flung herself affectionately into Fergus’s arms, kissed him on the cheek, and then turned her head coquettishly toward Roger.

“Oo, you’ve brought a friend!”

“Allow me to introduce my brother, the Reverend, mademoiselle. Reverend—Mademoiselle Marigold.”

“Of course she is,” Roger said, collecting his wits just in time to bow to the lady, who received his homage with a demure downward sweep of her shadowed eyelids.

“We get quite a number of Reverend gentlemen, sir,” she assured him, laughing gaily. “Don’t be shy. Remember, we’ve all seen one before.”

“One …” he began, rather stunned.

“Why, one clergyman,” she said, dimpling. “At least!”

She was dressed rather sedately—for a brothel, his mind amended. Which is to say, she was covered, even to her feet, which were clad in smart leather boots. He didn’t have time to consider what her function in the establishment might be—too expensively dressed to be a maid—before Fergus set her gently but firmly on her feet.

“Is the second-floor parlor available, chérie?”

Roger had a moment to notice that the girl was black, of a pale coffee color and with hair like smooth coils of molasses taffy. She was also somewhat older than he’d thought—perhaps in her late teens, and with a shrewd glint behind the playful air.

“If you don’t need it more than an hour,” she said. “Someone’s coming at four o’clock.”

“That will be sufficient,” Fergus assured her. “We only require a place to sit down and collect ourselves. Though I suppose a glass of wine might not be out of the question?”