“They were left in a hospital with a drunken surgeon, and they were dying like flies. So the youngest of ‘em put as many as he could in a boat and pushed off. They’re naught but poor foot soldiers. Two of ‘em are just fourteen years old. The French was letting ‘em die.”

“How terrible!” Sophie exclaimed. “And how good of you to take care of them.” She smiled warmly at John Hankford.

“They’re deserters, Sophie.” Patrick’s voice was strained. Perhaps the men were deserters—and perhaps they were able-bodied French soldiers pretending to be injured.

Sophie shrugged. “They are boys who are hurt. Who would possibly care that Mr. Hankford is taking care of their wounds?”

Off the top of his head, Patrick could think of a half-dozen gentlemen who would be remarkably interested in the existence of a Welsh group of Bonaparte sympathizers—and first in line would be Lord Breksby. In fact, this was precisely the kind of situation that had worried the English government enough that they had ordered fortifications built on the Welsh coast. But what was the good of fortifications if a group of crazy Welshmen simply invited French troops to land?

“You know, Sophie dearest,” Patrick drawled with just a hint of condescension, “England did declare war on Napoleon last May.”

“Well, of course we did,” Sophie said, looking up at him with an adorable little frown between her brows. “We had no choice once Addington decided to hold on to Malta. That broke the peace treaty.”

An ironic grin touched Patrick’s lips. His wife was a constant surprise to him.

But Sophie had already turned back to John. “Would you be so kind as to allow us to visit your hospital facilities? I have no knowledge of nursing,” she added hastily, “but I do speak French.”

John’s eyes brightened. “You do? That’s grand, missus. Mind you, I can make out a bit of French, and so can the parson, and so can my mother. And the boy who got them over here—his name’s Henry—he speaks some English, but even so we haven’t figured out what some of the lads are saying. No indeed.”

Patrick snorted. The parson? A parson was involved in this unpatriotic mess. Still, if Hankford and his mother were tending a lot of French soldiers without speaking the language, likely they weren’t true sympathizers with Bonaparte.

Sophie placed her hand on Mr. Hankford’s arm as he turned toward a side door. “I would be very pleased to speak to your patients,” she said.

John looked at her doubtfully. “I’m a bit worried as how I shouldn’t let you in the nursing side, ma’am, begging your pardon. Because what if your gentleman takes it in his head to tell the great men in London, and then my boys have their heads cut off?”