“Did anybody actually fight the French in this war, or was the whole business a lot of drama and public school foolishness?” Harry was honest enough to admit some guilt regarding the war. Not because he should have laid his life on the line for Fat George’s art collection, but because he’d refused to dally in war profiteering. Fortunes had been made thanks to Boney’s ambitions, but the notion of swindling soldiers out of decent rations or warm blankets had turned Harry liverish.

A smart man knew which rigs to run and which rigs to run from.

“Ye are contemplating foolishness,” Sparky said. “Ye think ’Aarry Whoever is smarter than everybody else. You’re so smart, ye had to fashion yer own death in Oxford, ye had to leave Bristol hotfoot, and ye’ve been run out of Dublin. Manchester won’t have ye, and the other port towns will arrest ye on sight.”

“Costs of doing business.” Harry tried for a cheerful tone and failed. Ireland had been lucrative for a time, and the port towns were a real loss. Strangers were part of the landscape in any busy port, and opportunities for the enterprising abounded.

“Costs of committing crimes, ’Arry. I will finish me parable where Tremont is concerned and leave ye to contemplate yer sins. Tucker took off with the earl’s horse. Hanging felony even in peacetime. Dunacre’s spies got wind of this, and Tremont was called to account for his man. If Tremont had said the horse was merely being taken out of camp for some decent grazing, Dunacre would have had Tucker dead to rights—no groom grazes a horse in saddle and bridle. Worse, Dunacre would have court-martialed Tremont for lying to his superior officer.”

“The army sounds worse than the church when it comes to rules, regulations, and stupid games.”

“Pay attention, ’Arry,” Sparky said tiredly. “If Tremont had offered the predictable explanation—that Tucker were taking the horse to graze—then Dunacre woulda won. Tremont instead said he’d been trying to saddle his own mount, and the beast had got away from him. In that version, Tucker was risking his neck outside camp to save the horse. Dunacre’s hands were tied, and that story found wings.”

The swindler in Harry grudgingly admired Tremont’s quick thinking. “And this Tucker person probably turned around and deserted the next day anyway. Who’s the fool then, Sparky?”

“Tremont’s men didn’t desert in the numbers they ought, given Dunacre’s mischief. They looked after Tremont, and he looked after them. His lordship took to riding mules after Dunacre killed his horse. Tremont looked the fool to some of his fellow officers; the men knew different. Dunacre’s vanity kept him from trying to kill the mules, and his ’orsemanship wasn’t up to riding a Spanish mule into the ground anyway. Old Scratch hisself couldn’t outlast a Spanish mule.”