“Why?”

“None of your business,” William replied bluntly. “So Adam’s still speaking to you, is he? Where is he, come to that?”

“In New York, with Clinton.” Ben jerked his head to the left. His face was pale in the gray light.

“Does it occur to you that you could get him in serious trouble, talking to him?—arrested and court-martialed, even bloody hanged? Or does that consideration not weigh against your new … loyalties?” William’s heart was still beating fast from the shock of finding Ben alive, and he was in no mood to mince words.

“How the fuck dare you?” William said, fury rising suddenly out of nowhere. “Never mind being a traitor, you’re a fucking coward! You couldn’t just change your coat and be straight about it—oh, no! You had to pretend to be fucking dead, and kill your father with grief—and what do you think your mother will feel when she hears it?”

Despite the dim light, he could see the blood rush into Ben’s face and his hands clench into fists. Still, Ben kept his voice level.

“Think about it, Willie. Which would my father prefer—that I was dead, or that I was a traitor? That would bloody kill him!”

“Or he’d kill you,” William said brutally. Ben stiffened but didn’t reply.

“So what was it?” William asked. “Rank, General Bleeker? It can’t have been money.”

“I don’t expect you to understand,” Ben said, through his teeth. He took a breath, as though to continue, but then stopped, eyes narrowed. “Or maybe you do. Did you come here to join us?”

“What—become Washington’s bum-licker, like you? No, I fucking didn’t. I came to find Dottie. Imagine my surprise.” He made a contemptuous gesture toward the blue-and-buff uniform.

“Then why resign your commission?” Ben looked him up and down, taking in the rough clothes and grubby linen, the thick boots with the woolen stocking tops turned down over them. “And why the devil are you dressed like that?”

“I repeat—none of your business. It wasn’t political, though,” he added, and wondered briefly why he had.

“Well, it was political for me.” Ben took a deep, deliberate breath and leaned back against the door. “Heard of a man called Paine? Thomas Paine?”

“No.”

“He’s a writer. That is, he was employed by His Majesty’s Customs and Excise, but got sacked and started thinking about politics.”

“As one does when unemployed, I suppose.”

Ben gave him a quelling look.

“I met him in Philadelphia, in a tavern. I spoke with him. Thought he was … interesting. Odd-looking cove, but … intense, I suppose you’d say.” Ben inhaled too deeply and coughed; William could feel the tickle of smoke in his own chest.

“Then, later, when I was taken prisoner at the Brandywine …” He cleared his throat. “I had occasion to read his pamphlet. It’s called Common Sense. And I talked with the officer with whom I boarded and … well, it is common sense, dammit.” He shrugged, then dropped his shoulders and looked defiantly at William. “I became convinced that the Americans were in the right, that’s all, and I couldn’t in conscience fight on the side of tyranny any longer.”