“Mr. Lister. Please, sir.” He leaned forward, tried to take Lister’s hands in his, but they were clenched into fists.

He remembered the lieutenant’s last words, vividly. Likewise, Philip Lister’s expression of openmouthed astonishment as the cannonball had struck the ground, hit a stone, and soared up into the air—an instant later decapitating the lieutenant and rendering his last words ironically prophetic.

“Fuck me!” the lieutenant had said, in wonderment.

Mr. Lister was so much overcome with emotion that he made little protest at the brandy, and while he coughed and spluttered, Grey managed to pour sufficient into him as to induce a semblance of calm at last.

He had had it in mind, seeing his guest’s distress, to compose some suitably noble speech in lieu of Philip Lister’s actual exit line, but found that he could not bring himself to do this.

“I saw your son for the first time only moments before his death,” he said, as gently as he could. “There was no time for talk. But I can assure you, sir, that he died instantly—and he died bravely, as a soldier of the king. You—and your wife, of course—may be justly proud of him.”

“May we?” The brandy had calmed Mr. Lister, and had the salutary effect of relieving his stammer, but had also brought a hectic flush to his pale cheeks.

“I thank you for your words, sir. And seeing that you share the profession of arms, I suppose you mean them.”

“I do,” Grey said, somewhat surprised.

Lister mopped at his face with the handkerchief Tom had discreetly provided, and looked directly at Grey for the first time.

“You will think me ungrateful, my lord, and I assure you I am not. But I must tell you that we—my wife and I—were completely opposed to Philip’s choice of career. We—fell out over the matter, I regret to say. In f-fact…” He swallowed heavily. “We had not spoken to Philip since he took up his commission.”

And now he was dead, as a direct result of having done so. Grey took a deep breath and nodded.

“I see, sir. You have my sympathy. A bit more brandy, perhaps? Purely for medicinal purposes.”

Mr. Lister looked at the bottle with a certain longing, but shook his head.

“No, my lord. I…no.”

He fell silent, looking down at the sword, which he now clutched tightly, one hand wrapped around the scabbard.

“May I ask a great favor of you, my lord?” he said abruptly.

“Certainly,” Grey replied, willing to do almost anything, firstly to relieve Lister’s distress, secondly to get him out of Grey’s sitting room.

“I said that we were opposed to Philip’s pursuing a career with the army. He bought his commission with a small inheritance, and left almost immediately for London.” The hectic flush had faded a little; now it came back, washing up Mr. Lister’s throat in a tide of shame. “He—he t-took…” The words dried in his throat, and he looked down, fumbling with the ring of the scabbard.

Took what? Grey wondered. The family silver? Was he to be asked to comb pawnshops for bartered heirlooms? With a sense of resignation, he poured more tea, picked up the brandy bottle and added a healthy dollop, then firmly handed the cup to Mr. Lister.

“Took what?” he asked bluntly.

Mr. Lister took the tea with trembling hands and, with an obvious effort, went on, looking down into its aromatic depths.

“He had formed an…attachment. To the daughter of our minister—a most suitable young woman; my wife and daughters were terribly fond of her.”

The minister had been, if not fond of Philip Lister, at least amenable to the match—until Philip had declared his intention of becoming a soldier.

The upshot of this had been that the minister had broken off the attachment—evidently it had not reached the stage of betrothal—and forbade Philip the house. Whereupon the new lieutenant, inflamed, had come round by night with a ladder, and in the best romantic tradition, induced his love to elope with him.

The little he had heard from Quarry of Philip Lister had already convinced Grey that perhaps the son was not so religious in outlook as were his parents; thus this revelation was not quite the shock to him that it plainly had been to his family.

“The scandal,” Mr. Lister whispered, and, gulping tea, shuddered convulsively. “The disgrace of it nearly killed m-my wife. And the Reverend Mr. Thackeray, of course…The things he preached…”

Familiar with the ways of scandal, Grey had no difficulty in envisioning the aftermath of Lieutenant Lister’s elopement. The religious aspects of the matter had—as they usually did, he reflected—merely magnified the damage.

The Lister family had been summarily dismissed from the congregation, even though they had already publicly disowned Philip. Their dismissal had in turn caused dissent and schism in the congregation—which had, naturally, spread throughout the village of which Mr. Lister was squire, resulting in general bad feeling, fisticuffs in the pub, the burning of someone’s hayrick, and specific and personal denunciation of the Listers and their supporters from the pulpit.

“It is not that I consider the practice of arms immoral in itself, you understand,” Mr. Lister said, wiping his nose—which had gone bright red with emotion and brandy—with a napkin. “Only that we had hoped for better things for Philip. He was our only son.”

Grey was conscious of Tom Byrd on the opposite side of the room, prickling like a hedgehog, but was careful not to catch his eye.

“I quite understand, sir,” he said, meaning only to be soothing.

“Do you, my lord?” Lister gave him a look of puzzled anguish. He seemed intent that Grey shouldunderstand. His brow drew down and he turned the sword over in his hand, seeming to search for some means of making himself clearer.

“It is such—such a brutaloccupation, is it not?” he burst out at last.

Grey stared at him, thinking, Yes. And so?

Before he could formulate something polite in reply, Tom Byrd, bending over the table to retrieve the seed cake, leapt in.

“I daresay,” he said hotly. “And if it wasn’t, you’d be saying what you just said in bleedin’ French, wouldn’t you?”

Lister regarded him, openmouthed. Grey coughed and motioned Tom hastily out of the room. The young valet went, with a last glower of disapproval at their guest.

“I must apologize for my valet, sir,” Grey said, feeling a terrible urge to laugh. “He is…” A faint rattle from the cup and saucer he held made him realize that his hands had begun to shake, and he set them carefully down, grasping his knees with both hands.

“He is honest,” Lister said bleakly.

Outspoken honesty was not a virtue generally prized in a valet, but it was a virtue for all that—and Grey prized it. He nodded, and cleared his throat.

“A, um, favor, I believe you said?”

“Yes, my lord.” The recounting of his woes—and the recollection of the Reverend Mr. Thackeray’s most iniquitous sermon—had revived Mr. Lister more than brandy. He sat bolt upright, cup clutched to his bosom, his dead son’s sword across his knees, and fixed Grey with a burning gaze.

“I wish your help, my lord, in finding the girl. Anne Thackeray. I have some reason to suppose she was with child—and if so, I want the babe.”

Iam completely insane.”

“You’ve a very kind heart, me lord,” Tom Byrd said reprovingly. “Not the same thing at all.”

“Oh, I am reasonably sure that it is—at least in this instance. Kind of you to give me the benefit of the doubt, though, Tom.”

“Of course, me lord. Lift your chin a bit, if you please.” Tom breathed heavily through his nose, frowning in concentration as he drew the razor delicately up the side of Grey’s neck.

“Not as I know why you said you’d do it, mind,” Byrd remarked.