“Tell me,” he said again. Wainwright was trembling all over now, and sweating heavily, but he nodded, jerky as a puppet, and began to talk.

It took several minutes to get it all out, but Wainwright gradually calmed as he spoke and at last fell silent, staring at the green figured carpet under his feet. William and Amaranthus exchanged glances over his bowed head.

“So this gentleman—well, this person,” Amaranthus said, mouth pursed as though to spit, “wants the duke not to go to England and tell Lord North things about the war, and so he’s kidnapped Lord John and is threatening to kill him unless your uncle acquiesces?” She sounded incredulous, William thought. Richardson’s letter had been hard to believe, but to hear the facts like this … Wainwright was nodding.

“That’s it,” he said, dully. “He—has his own reasons for wanting the war to continue, and he thinks Pardloe might be able to convince the prime minister otherwise.”

“Well, he wouldn’t be the only one with an interest in the war continuing,” William said, beginning to get hold of himself. “War is an expensive business—and that means the men who supply it are making a lot of money. I can think of two or three who might want to stop the duke from spreading notions to the contrary around England. But Richardson—” He eyed Wainwright narrowly, but the man gave no sign of deliberate deception—or of anything, really, save profound distress.

“I told you, I know this Richardson,” William said abruptly, turning to Amaranthus. “And God help me, I think he likely is mad. Some of the things he’s done …” He shook his head.

“Wait here,” he said to Wainwright, and put out a hand to Amaranthus. “Come with me for a moment.”

THE HOUSE WAS quiet; Moira had gone to market and Miss Crabb was lying down. Even Trevor was asleep, thank God. Still, William guided Amaranthus out into the garden, just in case. Sight of the little grape-bower made him think vaguely that neither of them had mentioned his proposal since their return, but the thought vanished like smoke.

“What do you think?” he asked, glancing back over his shoulder at the house.

“I think there must be more truth to the letter this Richardson sent than we even thought. Mr. Wainwright seems more or less sane, but I don’t know about Captain Richardson—is that his rank, captain?”

“Well, it was when he was on our side,” William said with a shrug. “He’s turned his coat now, and I think the Americans may have given him a major’s commission, or even a colonelcy of some kind; they poach officers from European armies with rank because they haven’t got any money. The Americans, I mean.”

“So this Richardson is a turncoat and a madman? The Americans seem not to be very choosy, do they?”

“I gather they made James Fraser a general, if that tells you anything.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.