Good God, soldiers. No, worse. Officers, who may have received the description of a desperate criminal known as Hargate. Evan was still a wanted man, and not only by the murderous Mulholland. I glanced at him again. To all other eyes he no doubt seemed serene, but I saw the strain around his mouth.

The captain and lieutenant bowed, along with Evan, Porty, and Mr. Ellis-Brant. Julia and I curtsied our own greeting, and I could feel the same tension that gripped me radiating from my sister.

The captain was absurdly young: fresh-faced, with barely a beard. Probably a younger brother in a good family making a career in the army. For all his youth, however, he had shrewd blue eyes and a hint of humor about his mouth. His lieutenant was a little older—mid-thirties, perhaps—which must make for an interesting dynamic between them. He possessed a long, bony face that seemed settled into a morose expression, rather like a scent hound.

“Ah, you are already down,” Charlotte said behind us. She herded Miss Grant and the Ermine into the room. “Captain Morland, Lieutenant Powers, allow me to introduce Mrs. Ellis-Brant and Miss Dashwood. Mrs. Carter is not well enough to join us tonight, so I believe we are all here now.” As she spoke, Hanford arrived at the doorway, signaling with a bow of his head. “And I see that we are ready to dine. Shall we?”

Lord Davenport immediately offered his arm to me, Mr. Ellis-Brant to Charlotte, Evan to my dear Julia, the captain gave a smart salute to the Ermine, and Miss Grant took the lieutenant’s arm. A nicely balanced table, and one that I wished Evan was miles away from.

It transpired that Captain Morland was, indeed, the younger son of a nobleman who was also a particular university friend of Porty’s, thus the invitation to dine. They had met at the end of the boxing match, where the captain and the lieutenant had been keeping a close eye upon the assembled spectators.

“Are you expecting trouble?” Mr. Ellis-Brant asked, helping himself to the cheese tart. He sat next to Miss Grant and offered her a slice with a kindly smile. “I remember there was some problem in Yorkshire earlier this year.”

If Mr. Ellis-Brant meant the British Army gunning down some weavers at a mill near Huddersfield in March, then yes, there had been a problem. The weavers’ protest had been declared a deplorable situation—wanton destruction of machines and injury to innocent people—but I had rather thought the shooting of one’s own citizens who were fighting to maintain a livelihood just as deplorable. Not a popular opinion, but in my mind such violence set a dangerous precedent.