I waited. Gave him time to fit his wig upon his head, shrug on his coat, and face me with his armor well intact. “You will forgive the beard,” he said. “They seem to think that if I have a razor I will cut their throats, and I’ve no faith their barber won’t cut mine.”

It was a fair dilemma. Briefly, I returned his smile. “I’d offer you my knife, but I’m afraid your guard took all my weapons.” He had not done so the first time I’d come to visit, but today the guard had made me turn my pockets out and kept possession of my sword belt with the whinger. I had thought he might not give me back my pen and ink and papers either, but he did. Among them was the letter Seafield sent me to deliver, which the guard had not disturbed.

Moray said, “Yes, he’s been diligent of late.” From inside his coat he drew a letter that fell open easily along its folds as if it had been often read. “I should imagine this is why. I did receive this from my wife, who mentions she received my own last Wednesday morning, for which I’m in your debt. Ye could not possibly have got it there so quickly had ye used the Stirling carrier.”

“No,” I said. “I reasoned an express was safer. And I thought your wife should not be made to wait.”

“Ye will be reimbursed. I’ll see to it when I’m released.”

“That won’t be needed. I am only happy that your wife and son are well.”

He studied me. “Ye’re well informed. How did ye know I had a son?”

“My friend’s wife, Mrs. Turnbull,” I explained, “is well connected in society.”

“I’m flattered that she would apply her connections to learn about me,” he said lightly.

I felt moved to defend her. “She was trying, in her way, to help our inquiry. Her husband’s the one who is meant to be leading it.”

“I see. And she considers it relevant, does she, that I have a son?” He’d not altered his tone, but I knew I had struck his protective nerve and should continue with caution. I also knew this was my chance to come sideways at something I’d wondered about.

I said, “She thinks you are a Jacobite, because you did not name your son for your wife’s father or your own, but called him James.” It was an indirect way of asking the question, and he obliged with an indirect answer.

“I had a brother James, whom I did love, and who died young. And, as you know, I had a cousin James. I loved him also, and he too is dead. I might have named my son for either of them. But,” he added, looking half-annoyed and half-amused, “my son was baptized on the birthday of our young King James, and is named James Francis Edward, like the king, so your friend’s wife may have a point.” He turned the challenge back on me. “And what of ye? Do ye drink to the health of Queen Anne when at table, or pass your glass over the water to honor the king who now lives beyond sea?”