Hankford looked at him cautiously. “What do ye mean, sir?”

“Send them to London and we’ll find them work somewhere. London is full of Frenchmen and they won’t be conspicuous.”

Blue eyes smiled up at Patrick as if he had suddenly turned into a gold statue. “It’s right kind of you, sir, right kind indeed. Do you know, your lady suggested the same thing, but I told her no, because you might not agree. As the Good Book says, a man’s the head of the household. That’s right kind of you.”

Patrick strolled across the large room, conscious of something odd. Hadn’t John said that his mother spoke no English? And little French? So what language were she and Sophie speaking? But by the time he reached them, Mrs. Hankford had returned to her patient, and Sophie turned to him, smiling.

“Good morning, Patrick. I have been telling Henri that we would be very pleased if he could make us a visit—”

But Henri broke in. “Sir, I told her that you won’t want me to make a visit, as if I were a true personage. I thought perhaps you might give me a position in your stables.”

Patrick glanced down at Henri. His little face had fallen into anxious lines, and his body was hunched as if to ward off disappointment. But his gray eyes were fiercely proud.

“I was looking forward to making your acquaintance,” Patrick said gravely. “As a guest, not a stableboy.”

Henri shook his head. “I’m not a cas de charité. I must earn money to keep myself.”

“Who was your father, Henri?”

Henri stood straighter. “That is unimportant, because he died when I was very young, and I was brought up by Monsieur Paire, who was a fisherman.” Henri had clearly absorbed Republican principles as he grew.

“Who taught you to make a bow?” Sophie asked. “And to speak English?”

“Before, I had an English nanny,” Henri said. “But she and Maman died too.” He stopped there.

Henri was a gentleman’s son, no question about it, Patrick thought. Perhaps they could locate some of his relatives, if any survived.

“Do you know your father’s name, Henri?” Patrick asked gently, but there was an implicit command there too.

“Monsieur Leigh Latour,” Henri said reluctantly. And then, after Patrick met his eyes, he added, “the Count of Savoyard.”

Sophie knelt down and took Henri’s hands. “I would like you to come to London as my guest,” she said. “I become lonely sometimes, and you would be very good company.”

Patrick suppressed a smile with difficulty. Sophie—lonely?

Henri glanced at her briefly from under a thick fringe of dark lashes, then stared back at the floor. “I think … I don’t belong in a fine house,” he said. His voice was perilously close to tears. “My parents cannot return the honor.”