“And how the devil did he come to be there, for that matter?”
John shook his head. What did it matter now, after all? Still, he wasn’t going to explain just how it was that Percy had escaped being hanged for the crime of sodomy; he’d rather Hal didn’t expire of apoplexy just yet.
“About how you got yourself arrested by the Americans, escaped, and showed up after the battle in camp with a homicidal Mohawk Indian purporting to be James Fraser’s nephew? More or less,” Hal said, and a corner of his mouth twitched. “Mostly less, I imagine. You didn’t mention Percy, at any rate.”
John blinked in a noncommittal sort of way and tilted his head toward the door. Brisk footsteps were coming down the corridor; doubtless Hal’s valet, coming to extract Hal from the bondage of his dress uniform.
To his surprise, however, the footsteps belonged to William, mildly disheveled but evidently sober.
“I need to find Banastre Tarleton,” he said, without preamble. “How do you suggest I do that?”
“What d’you want him for?” Hal inquired, sitting down in a wooden chair. “And if you want help, turnabout’s fair play—help me get these bloody boots off. They’re John’s, and they’re killing me.”
“It’s not my fault you’ve got bunions,” John said. “Totally fitting for an infantry commander, though, you’ll admit. No one can say you don’t do your job thoroughly.”
Hal gave him a mildly evil look, then put his hands on William’s head to brace himself as William wrestled one boot loose.
“Do you know where Tarleton is?” he asked John, who shook his head.
“Neither do I,” Hal said, addressing the cowlick on top of William’s head, which swirled neatly clockwise before sticking up. Just like his father’s, John thought.
“Clinton’s chief clerk would know,” Grey said, and cleared his throat. “His name’s Ronson—Captain Geoffrey Ronson, if you please.”
“Fine.” William jerked the boot off and nearly shot backward off the campaign chest he was sitting on. He tossed the muddy boot on the hearth rug and inspected his chest, to be sure his beetles had suffered no damage. “Where the devil is Sir Henry keeping himself these days?”
“New York, for the moment,” Hal said, sticking out his other foot. “I’d bet reasonable money that Tarleton is still with him. Tarleton’s cavalry riders were Clinton’s new toy at Monmouth, and I doubt he’s had all his fun with them yet.”
William grunted as the second boot came off, and laid it with its fellow on the rug.
“So, shall I write to Tarleton directly, care of Sir Henry?”
John and Hal exchanged glances.
“I think I would,” Hal said, with a slight shrug. “Just don’t put anything in the letter that you don’t want the world to know about. Some clerks are discreet and a hell of a lot of them aren’t.”
“Speaking of which,” John said, eyeing his son. “Would it be indiscreet of us to ask why you want to find Banastre Tarleton?”
William shook his head, then smoothed the dislodged cowlick back into the dark mass of his hair.
“Denys Randall told me at the luncheon yesterday that it was Ban Tarleton who first got the letter from Middlebrook Encampment about Ben dying there. He evidently gave it to Ezekiel Richardson, and thus—” He made a spiraling gesture indicating the letter’s eventual arrival to Hal’s hand. “So I want to know why Tarleton got it, and how.”
“Very reasonable,” Hal agreed. “But I doubt it’ll be that easy.” He lowered his brows and stared at William, very directly. “What I tell you goes no further, William. Not to your Indian friend, your lover—if you have one, and no, I don’t want to know—or anyone else.”
William refrained from rolling his eyes, but only just. John looked down to hide a smile.
“Tace is the Latin for a candle,” William said obligingly, and laid a hand over his mouth. “My lips are sealed.”
Hal snorted, but nodded.
“Right. Sir Henry is tired of making feints at the Americans around New York and Virginia. He wants a bold stroke, and he’s got his eye upon Charles Town. If he hasn’t already left New York to go take it from the Americans, he will, within the next few months.”
“Who told you that?” John asked, surprised.
“Three different men at luncheon, all of whom begged me to keep it quiet.”