‘He is governor-general, Colonel.’

Hervey managed to keep his countenance, just. He didn’t relish a spy in the camp, for good or ill. Not that it was fair to call Kynaston a spy, but a cornet on terms with the governor-general was a confounding prospect.

He was, however, a fine-looking subaltern: tall, fair, with a good leg for a boot, and an openness of expression, without hint of guile – exactly the cut of officer he, Hervey, prized. Evidently, too, from his Tamul, he was a man of application – as already it seemed by submitting himself to the unnecessary and no doubt toilsome regime of the military college.

‘Tell me, what of Sandhurst? I am not well acquainted with its method.’

‘There is much drill and equitation, Colonel, and the military sciences – administration, topography and fortifications especially – and field sketching.’

‘Admirable,’ said Hervey, though warily. He knew perfectly well of the several academies that purported to prepare a cadet for service, of which that now at Sandhurst was carried on at public expense, but he was of the opinion still that a gentleman born, brought up to horse and hound, God-fearing and of good appearance and constitution, was best brought to his regiment quickly, so he could learn its particular ways and the regulation of men. It was not so for officers of the Ordnance – the artillery and engineers – for they had practical matters to be expert in before they joined, but a cavalryman …

‘Well … I am glad you’re come. There’s work to be done.’

Kynaston rose to take his leave.

He was sensible of cadence, at least, thought Hervey, whatever the military college had drilled into him – and which the regiment might have to drill out. Indeed, he was already inclined to like him, whatever his status as ‘spy’. He certainly didn’t have the stamp of a Channer or a Waterman.

St Alban returned a little afterwards. ‘Well, Colonel, Askew is apprised of his fortune, and pretty humbly. How did you find Kynaston?’

‘Did you know his uncle is Bentinck?’

St Alban started. ‘No, I did not, else I would have told you at once.’

‘To his credit, he didn’t volunteer it, nor yet try to conceal it. Which troop is he for?’

‘You’d said Oliphant’s.’

‘Had I? I think better it is B.’

‘Very well.’ St Alban supposed he knew why. There wasn’t a place to fill in B Troop, but if there was to be communication with the governor-general, better that it be informed under Worsley’s command. He knew that, to Hervey’s mind, there was no surer troop captain than Worsley – not even Vanneck, who was sure enough. Worsley had first commended himself by his address and courage in the affair of the gunpowder mills at Waltham Abbey – long before he, St Alban, had joined (but it was still spoken of) – and he’d seen himself how Dorothea Worsley had been the staunchest of supports at Hounslow. And, of course, they’d both come to India …