“Will you wish to return to England with your brother?” Grey asked at last, quite baldly. “Or to continue on to India, in Mr. Trevelyan’s service?”

“Well, that’s what I’ve been asking myself, my lord, ever since that ship came close enough for Mr. Hudson to say what she was.” Jack Byrd scratched meditatively under his chin. “I’ve been with Mr. Trevelyan for a long time, see—since I was twelve. I’m . . . attached to him.” He darted a quick glance at Grey, then stopped, seeming to wait for something.

So he hadn’t been wrong. He had seen that unguarded look on Jack Byrd’s face—and Jack Byrd had seen him watching. He lifted one eyebrow, and saw the young man’s shoulders drop a little in sudden relaxation.

“Well . . . so.” Jack Byrd shrugged, and let his hands fall on his knees.

“So.” Grey rubbed his own chin, feeling the heavy growth of whiskers there. There would be time for Tom to shave him before the Scorpion came alongside, he thought.

“Have you spoken to Tom? He will surely be hoping that you will come back to England with him.”

Jack Byrd bit his lower lip.

“I know.”

There were shouts of a different kind overhead: long calls, like someone howling in a chimney—he supposed the Nampara was trying to communicate with someone on the troopship. Where was his uniform? Ah, there, neatly brushed and hung on a hook by the door. Would Tom Byrd wish to go with him when the regiment was reposted? He could but hope.

In the meantime, there was Tom’s brother, here before him.

“I would offer you a position—as footman—” he added, giving the young man a straight look, lest there be any confusion about what was and was not offered,“—in my mother’s house. You would not lack for employment.”

Jack Byrd nodded, lips slightly pursed.

“Well, my lord, that’s kind. Though Mr. Trevelyan had made provisions for me; I shouldn’t starve. But I don’t see as how I can leave him.”

There was enough of a question in this last to make Grey sit up and face round in the bed, his back against the wall, in order to address the situation properly.

Was Jack Byrd seeking justification for staying, or excuse for leaving?

“It’s only . . . I’ve been with Mr. Joseph for some time,” Byrd said again, reaching out a hand to scratch the cat’s ears—more in order to avoid Grey’s gaze than because of a natural affection for cats, Grey thought. “He’s done very well by me, been good to me.”