He closed the back door behind him with a surge of pleasure.

“Sir?” He turned round, finding himself in the kitchen, and the cynosure of the gaze of a cook and several kitchen maids. The air was perfumed with the smell of roasting meat—there was a huge pig turning on the spit in the spacious hearth and his mouth was watering—but food could wait.

He bowed and lifted his hat briefly to the cook.

“Your pardon, ma’am. I’ve a message for the doctor.”

“Oh, he’s in the parlor,” said one of the younger maids. She looked admiringly up William’s body, and he smiled at her. “I’ll take you!”

“Thank you, my dear,” he said, and bowed ingratiatingly again before following her out.

The house was comfortable, but seemed to have quite a few people in it; he could hear voices and the sound of footsteps overhead—there was a second story over the back part of the house. The maid led him to a closed door and bobbed a curtsy. He thanked her again, and as he reached for the porcelain knob of the door, he heard the unmistakable sound of his cousin Dottie’s gurgling laugh, and his own face broke into a grin.

He was still wearing the grin when he stepped into the room. Dottie was sitting in a chair by the fire, some sort of knitting on her lap, her face full of lively attention as the man in Continental uniform standing by the hearth said something to her.

Denzell was there, too, by the window, but William scarcely noticed, frozen to the spot by the sound of the man’s voice.

“William!” Dottie exclaimed, dropping her knitting. The man by the hearth turned sharply.

“Jesus Christ,” he said, staring in shock. “What the devil are you doing here?” The blue of his coat gave his winter-pale-blue eyes a piercing glint.

William felt as though he’d been kicked in the stomach by a mule, but managed a breath.

“Hallo, Ben,” he said flatly.

104

General Fucking Bleeker

BEN LOOKED AT HIM with a cold formality and said, “That would be General Bleeker to you, sir.” That might have been taken as humor, but it bloody wasn’t, and wasn’t meant to be.

“Bleeker,” William said, making it almost a question. “All right, if you must. But Ralph?”

Ben’s face darkened, but he kept his temper.

“It isn’t Ralph,” he said shortly. “It’s Rafe.”

“One of Ben’s names is Raphael,” Dottie said pleasantly, as though making conversation over the tea table. “After our maternal grandfather. His name is Raphael Wattiswade.”

“Is?” William said, startled into looking at her. “I thought your mother’s father was dead.” He switched the look back to his cousin. “For that matter, I thought you were dead.”

Dottie and Denzell exchanged a brief marital look.

“I believe Friend Wattiswade has gone to some trouble to give that impression,” Denzell said, carefully not looking at Ben. “Will thee sit down, William? There is some wine.” Without waiting for an answer, he rose and gestured to his empty chair, going then to fetch a decanter from a small table near the door.