He did know—from his father—that Hal hadn’t been able to bring himself to write to his wife about Ben.

“When does he mean to go?” he asked.

“In a month,” Miss Crabb said, and pursed her lips.

“Does Lord John mean to go as well?” William half-hoped the answer was no. While he didn’t want Uncle Hal to choke to death alone on a ship, he much preferred to have Papa here, holding things together while he, William, pursued Amaranthus.

The two women shook their heads, both looking grave. They might have said more, but at that moment Papa’s quick footsteps came down the hall, and a moment later his disheveled fair head poked through the door.

“He’s better,” he said at once, catching William’s eye. “Come and help me; he wants to go up to his bed.”

THE DUKE SPENT much of the next day in bed, but when William went up to check on his state of health, he was sitting upright, a writing desk on his knees, scribbling away. He looked up at William’s advent and forestalled any queries by saying, “So, you still mean to go after her.”

It wasn’t posed as a question, and William merely nodded. So did Hal, and took a clean sheet of paper from the quire on his bedside table.

“Tomorrow, then,” he said.

AT DAWN OF the next day, William fastened his stock, buttoned his buff waistcoat, pulled on the red coat he’d thought he’d never wear again, and went downstairs, his step firm in his freshly polished boots.

His father and uncle were already at breakfast, and despite his impatience to be off, the smell of buttered corn bread, fried eggs, fresh ham, peach jam, crab fritters, and grilled sea trout was enough to make him sit down without argument. Both Papa and Uncle Hal viewed him with exactly the same look of mixed approval and veiled anxiety, making him want to laugh, but he didn’t, instead inclining his head briefly—neither one was talkative in the mornings, but apparently today was an exception.

“Here.” Uncle Hal pushed two folded documents with wax seals across the table to him. “The red one’s your commission and the other’s your orders—such as they are. I’ve given you the rank of captain, and your orders say you’re to be given free passage essentially anywhere you want to go, without let or hindrance, and you may call upon the assistance of His Majesty’s officers and troops as needed and available.”

“You think I might need a column of infantry to help drag Amaranthus back?” William asked, biting into a warm slice of fresh buttered corn bread, thick with peach jam.

“You think you won’t?” his father said, arching an eyebrow. Lord John got up and, coming behind William, undid his hasty plait and rebraided it, tight and neat, before doubling it into a queue and binding it with his own black ribbon. The touch of his father’s hands on his neck, warm and light, moved him.