“Good morning,” William said, rather loudly, and sat down. “Where’s Trevor?”
“Somewhere with your friend Mr. Cinnamon,” Amaranthus said, blinking sleepily. “God bless him. He came by looking for you, and as you were still sunk in hoggish slumber, he said he would take Trevor for a walk.”
“The little fiend yowled all night long,” Lord John said, shoving a pot of mustard in William’s direction. “Kippers coming,” he added, evidently in explanation of the mustard. “Didn’t you hear him?”
“Unlike some people, I slept the sleep of the just,” William said, buttering a piece of toast. “Didn’t hear a sound.”
Both relatives eyed him beadily over the toast rack.
“I’m putting him in your bed tonight,” Amaranthus said, attempting to smooth her frowsy locks. “See how justified you feel around dawn.”
A smell of smoky-sweet bacon wafted from the back of the house, and all three diners sat up involuntarily as the cook brought in a generous silver platter bearing not only bacon, but also sausages, black pudding, and grilled mushrooms.
“Elle ne fera pas ?uire les tomates,” his lordship said, with a slight shrug. She won’t cook tomatoes anymore. “Elle pense qu’elles sont toxiques.” She thinks they’re poisonous.
“La facon dont elle les cuits, elle a raison,” Amaranthus muttered, in good but oddly accented French. The way she cooks them, she’s right. William saw his father raise a brow; evidently he hadn’t realized that she spoke French at all.
“I, um, saw the garments you kindly had prepared for me,” William said, tactfully diverting the conversation. “I’m most appreciative, of course—though I don’t think I shall have occasion to wear them at present. Perhaps—”
“Gray will suit you very well,” Lord John said, looking happier when Moira came in and set down a glass of what smelled like coffee with whisky in it next to him. He nodded toward Amaranthus, seated across from William. “Your cousin embroidered the beetles on the waistcoat herself.”
“Oh. Thank you, cousin.” He bowed to her, smiling. “By far the most fanciful waistcoat I’ve ever owned.”
She straightened up, looking indignant, and pulled her wrapper tight across her bosom.
“They aren’t fanciful at all! Every single one of those beetles is to be found in this colony, and all of them are the right colors and shapes! Well,” she added, her indignation subsiding, “I’ll admit that the red eyes really were a touch of fancy on my part. I just thought the pattern required more red than a single ladybird beetle would provide.”
“Entirely appropriate,” Lord John assured her. “Haven’t you ever heard of licencia poetica, Willie?”
“William,” William said coolly, “and yes, I have. Thank you, coz, for my charmingly poetical beetles—have they names?”
“Certainly,” Amaranthus said. She was perking up, under the influence of tea and sausages; there was a tinge of pink in her cheeks. “I’ll tell you them later, when you’re wearing it.”
A slight but unmistakable frisson went through William at that “when you’re wearing it,” together with an instantaneous vision of her slender finger slowly moving from beetle to beetle, over his chest. He wasn’t imagining it; Papa had glanced sharply at Amaranthus when she said it. There was no sign of intentional flirtation on her face, though; her eyes were fixed on the steaming dish of kippers as it was set down before her.
William took a dollop of mustard and pushed the pot over to her.
“Beetles and finery notwithstanding,” he said, “I can’t be wearing gray velvet breeches to clear out a shed with Cinnamon, which is my chief errand today.”
“Actually not, William,” said Lord John, lending his name the lightest touch of irony. “Your presence is required at luncheon with General Prévost.”
William’s kipper-loaded fork stopped halfway to his mouth.
“Why?” he asked warily. “What the devil has General Prévost got to do with me?”
“Nothing, I hope,” his father said, reaching for the mustard. “He’s a decent soldier, but what with a heavy Swiss accent and no sense of humor, having a conversation with him is like pushing a hogshead of tobacco uphill. However …” Lord John added, peering over the table. “Do you see the pepper pot anywhere? … However, he’s entertaining a party of politicals from London at present, and a couple of Cornwallis’s senior officers have come down from South Carolina to meet them.”