“Mr. Ransom,” William said firmly, turning to see Denys Randall, uniformed and looking much more soigné in his toilet than on previous meeting. “Your servant, sir.”
He looked back and saw that Campbell’s party had come in but that Uncle Hal and his father had in the meantime somehow contrived to flank Prévost, behaving as though they were part of the official receiving line, greeting each of the London politicals—several of whom Uncle Hal appeared to know—with effusive welcome before Campbell could introduce them.
Smiling, he turned back to Denys.
“Any word of my cousin?”
“Not directly.” Randall snagged two glasses of sherry from a passing tray and handed one to William. “But I do know the name of the British officer who received the original letter with the news of your cousin’s death.”
“Colonel Richardson?” William asked, disappointed. “Yes, I know that.” But Denys was shaking his head.
“No. The letter was sent to Richardson by Colonel Banastre Tarleton.”
William’s sherry went down sideways and he choked slightly.
“What? Tarleton received the letter from the Americans? How? Why?” William’s last meeting with Ban Tarleton had ended with a pitched fight—on the battleground at Monmouth—over Jane. William was reasonably sure he’d won.
“I would really like to know that,” Denys replied, bowing to a gentleman in blue velvet across the room. “And I sincerely hope you’ll find out and tell me. Meanwhile, have you heard anything of our friend Ezekiel Richardson?”
“Yes, but probably nothing very helpful. My—father received a letter from a sailing captain of his acquaintance, who mentioned casually that he’d seen Richardson on the docks in Charles Town.”
“When?” Denys betrayed no open excitement at the news, but cocked his head like a terrier wondering whether he had just heard the scrabbling of a gopher underground.
“The letter was dated a month ago. No telling whether the captain saw the fellow then or sometime before. No hint that Schermerhorn—that’s the captain—knows that Ezekiel Richardson is a turncoat, by the way, so I suppose he wasn’t in uniform. Not an American uniform, I mean.”
“Nothing else?” The terrier was disappointed, but perked up again at William’s next bit of information.
“Apparently Richardson was with a gentleman named Haym. But he didn’t say anything about what they were doing, or who Haym might be.”
“I know who he is.” Denys kept control of his expression, but his interest was plain.
The conversation was interrupted at this point by the banging of a small gong and the butler’s announcement that luncheon was served, and he found himself separated as another acquaintance hailed Denys.
“All right, Willie?” His father popped up beside him as he made his way through the double doors of the reception room into a generous hall with a fantastic floorcloth of painted canvas, done in simulation of the mosaic of a Roman villa. “Has he found out anything about Ben?”
“Not much, but there may be something.” He hastily conveyed the gist of his conversation with Randall.
“He says he knows the man Richardson was seen with in Charles Town. Haym.”
“Haym?” Uncle Hal had caught up with them in time to hear this, and lifted an eyebrow at the name.
“Possibly,” said William. “You know him?”
“Not to say ‘know,’” his uncle said with a shrug. “But I have heard of a rich Polish Jew named Haym Salomon. I can’t think what the devil he’d be doing in Charles Town, though—the last I heard of him, he’d been sentenced to death as a spy, in New York.”
LUNCHEON WAS TEDIOUS, with small patches of aggravation. William found himself seated between a Mr. Sykes-Hallett, who seemed to be a Member of Parliament from someplace in Yorkshire, judging from his incomprehensible accent, and a slender, stylish gentleman in a bottle-green coat called Fungo （or possibly Fungus）， who burbled about the brilliance of the Southern Campaign （about which he plainly knew nothing, nor did he notice the stony looks of the soldiers seated near him） and kept addressing William as “Lord Ellesmere,” though he’d been tersely invited to stop.
William thought he caught a sympathetic look from Uncle Hal at the adjoining table, but wasn’t sure.
“Do I understand correctly that you have resigned your commission, Lord Ellesmere?” the green fungus asked, between nibbles of poached salmon. “Colonel Campbell said that you had—some trouble about a girl? Mind, I don’t blame you a bit.” He raised a hair-thin eyebrow in a knowing fashion. “A military career is well enough for men who have capacity but no means—but I understand that you fortunately do not require to make your way in life at the cost—at least the potential cost—of your blood?”