well for you?”
The war was still not going well for Rye. “Talk started in camp, probably from the pickets who saw me leaving after dark in civilian attire, then returning hours later. I was not a womanizer of any repute, my facility with languages was common knowledge, and my orders were to be kept secret.”
“With the entire camp ringed by sentries, whose sole purpose is to keep watch?”
“Precisely, and when the French began to have better luck ambushing our patrols and supply wagons, my name was brought up in a very unflattering context. To protect me, my commanding officer convened a board of inquiry. French desperation was blamed for our misfortunes, but the cloud over my reputation never entirely dissipated.”
Dorning slipped the knife back into his boot. “Is the crown in the habit of knighting spies?”
“I attributed that mishap to some general or other hoping to reward me for service that could not be acknowledged. After the board of inquiry, I was tasked mostly with interviewing prisoners and managing supplies, which is exactly where you’d billet a man whose loyalty was suspect. I offered to resume active duty during the Hundred Days and was politely told to go to hell.”
“Your name was not, then, cleared by the board of inquiry.”
“Far from it. Any measure taken to exonerate me—the board of inquiry, the promotion to colonel, the knighthood—has only made me look more guilty. My commanding officer has insisted that ignoring the whole problem and going quietly about my business is the only prudent course, but the scandal could well ruin my business. I am nearly certain I know the French side of this equation, but who the British traitor was, I cannot say.”
The maître de maison appeared in the doorway, a slim, immaculately groomed man of indeterminate years and African descent.
“Lavellais summons us,” Rye said, rising. “There’s more to the tale, but it can wait until we’ve eaten.”
“Colonel, Mr. Dorning.” Lavellais bowed, exuding the dignified good cheer of a duke. “Your table is ready, though, Colonel, you should know that Major MacKay and Captain Powell have just arrived. If you’d rather remove to a private dining room, I can take you through the cardroom.”
Dorning was family, Dylan and Alasdhair were more than family. The notion of serving as a social nexus for unrelated parties was novel for Rye, but probably a bit like translating between languages.
“If Powell and MacKay are amenable,” Rye said, “my cousins can dine with us.”
“Cousins,” Dorning said as Lavellais led them down the corridor. “My wife has grown, male cousins in Town at this unfashionable season, and this is the first I’m hearing of it. Should Jeanette plan to receive these cousins?”
“Dylan and Alasdhair only bide in London for part of the year. They ask after Jeanette, but until recently, she was a titled widow with a limited social calendar.”
“Widows need family more than most, Goddard. I begin to think you were raised by wolves or, more likely, by some sort of reptile that lays its eggs in the sand and then crawls off to devour feckless rabbits.”
Papa had spent hours tramping about the hedges in search of feckless rabbits. “From what Jeanette tells me, your titled father disappeared for weeks at a time to commune with ferns and orchids. Do not attempt to annoy my cousins for your amusement, Dorning. They are former military, and their patience, compared to my own vast stores, is limited.”
Rye managed the introductions, knowing full well that both Dylan and Alasdhair were keeping questions about Dorning behind their teeth for now. While the meal was served, the talk remained general—who had taken a bad fall following the hounds, who was hiding from creditors.
Dorning listened more than he spoke, did justice to the steak, and kept his throwing knife out of sight. While Rye let Dylan and Alasdhair carry the conversation, he wondered if Ann would have enjoyed the haricots vert amandine and if she had a favorite recipe for steak gravy.
Would she ever again doze off in Rye’s lap, and did she feel the same yearning that he did to share impossible pleasures?
When drinks had been carried to the reading room and the door firmly closed, Dorning took up a pose leaning on the mantel.
“Do I assume your cousins are in your confidence, Goddard?”
“You had better,” Dylan replied amiably. “We are his cousins.”
“Forgive Dorning,” Rye said. “He is so mobbed with siblings he has little experience of relatives beyond immediate family. Dylan and Alasdhair served with me. They know my