“Please,” he added, gently.

It was a long moment, and he imagined he heard the wingbeats of the pelicans passing soberly over the river below, but Percy nodded at last and stood up.

“Goodbye, John,” he whispered.

“Goodbye, Perseverance.”

152

Titus Andronicus

WILLIAM CAME BACK TO the house after yet another unfruitful search of the docks and the taverns on the roads leading out of Savannah, to find Amaranthus pacing to and fro in the front garden.

“There you are,” she said, in a tone mingling accusation and relief. “A man’s come; I saw him at Mrs. Fleury’s tea, but I don’t know his name. He says he’s a friend of Lord John’s and he knows you. I’ve put him in the parlor.”

He found the man who’d been introduced to him at Mrs. Fleury’s as the Cavalier Saint-Honoré in the parlor. He’d picked up one of Lord John’s treasured Meissen plates from the sideboard, and was running a finger gently round the gilt edging. Yes, it was the same man, a Frenchman; he’d seen him briefly at Madame Prévost’s luncheon, too.

“Your servant, sir. Puis-je vous aider?” William asked, in as neutral a voice as he could manage. The man turned round and his face changed as he saw William, going from exhaustion and strain to something like relief.

“Lord Ellesmere?” he said, in a thoroughly English accent.

William was too tired and in much too bad a temper to make either inquiries or explanations.

“Yes,” he said brusquely. “What do you want?” The fellow was much less soigné than when last seen; minus his wig, his hair was short and curly, frosted with gray and matted with sweat, and his linen was soiled, his expensive suit crumpled.

“My name is—Percy Wainwright,” the fellow said, as though not quite sure that it was. “I am … I was … well, I suppose I still am, come to think … I’m Lord John’s stepbrother.”

“What?” By reflex, William grabbed the Meissen plate before the fellow could drop it, and set it back on the sideboard. “What the devil do you mean, stepbrother? I’ve never heard of a stepbrother.”

“I don’t suppose you would have.” A faint grimace that might have started as a smile faded, leaving Wainwright’s face pale and exhausted.

“The family no doubt did their best to expunge me from memory, after … well, that’s of no account. There was a rupture, and a parting of ways—but I still consider John my brother.” He swallowed, swaying a little, and William thought the man was unwell.

“Sit down,” he said, grabbing one of the small armchairs and turning it round, “and tell me what’s going on. Do you know where Lord John is?”

Wainwright shook his head.

“No. I mean … yes, but he’s not …”

“Filius canis,” William muttered. He glanced round and saw Amaranthus, lurking curiously just outside the door, and jerked his chin at her as though she were the maid. “Get us some brandy, please.”