“What he is,” Uxbury said, “is a bastard. I have had a very near escape, Netherby. You will wish to congratulate me upon it, I daresay. If the late Riverdale had died six months later than he did, I would have found myself riveted to his by-blow before discovering the truth. One can only shudder at the thought. Though you would have escaped altogether having to deal with a wild and petulant youth.”

“And so I would,” Avery said, dropping his glass on its ribbon. He was tired of this conversation.

He clipped Uxbury behind the knees with one foot and prodded the stiffened fingertips of one hand against a point just below the man’s ribs that would rob him of breath for a minute or ten and probably turn him blue in the face into the bargain. He watched Uxbury topple, taking down a table and a heavy crystal decanter with him, and causing a spectacular enough crash to bring gentlemen and waiters and other assorted male persons running or at least hurrying from every direction. He watched Uxbury reach for a shout and not find it—or his next breath.

“Dear me,” he said to no one in particular. “The man must have been drinking too deep. Someone ought to loosen his cravat.”

He strolled away after a few moments, when it seemed there was enough help to revive a swooning regiment. It was, he decided as he left the club to resume his search, Camille who had had the near escape yesterday, not her erstwhile betrothed.

Even the youngsters who might still be counted as Harry’s friends were unable to point Avery in the right direction. He was told variously that Harry had gone off to a gaming hell, a brothel, a tavern, a postperformance theater party, another fellow’s rooms, and home. He was to be discovered at none of those places. The boy was usually quite predictable. Finding him was generally no more arduous than following a blazing trail would be. But this time he appeared to have fallen off the map, and Avery was beginning to wonder if perhaps he had slipped off to join his family in Hampshire.

It was Edwin Goddard, his secretary, who finally discovered the lad the following morning, no more than an hour after Avery had enlisted his assistance. God bless the man, he was worth his weight in gold.

Harry—drunk and bleary eyed, disheveled, clothes stained and even torn, stinking after two days without any encounter with water or soap, razor or tooth powder or a change of linen—had encountered, or been encountered by, a recruiting sergeant and had taken the king’s shilling in exchange for his spindly signature and a spot in some unprestigious regiment as a private soldier. By the time Avery came up with the group—it consisted of a few other ragamuffin recruits as well as Harry and the sergeant—his ward was looking pale and glum and mulish and the obvious possessor of a gigantic headache.

The Duke of Netherby, who had bathed and changed his clothes since last night, regarded the disgusting huddle of military would-be heroes through his quizzing glass—he had chosen a jeweled one deliberately so that it would wink in the sun—while the disgusting huddle gawked back and Harry looked green and defiant.

“Harry,” His Grace said with a sigh. “It is time to come home, my lad.”

“’Ere, ’ere.” The sergeant stepped forward to within one foot of His Grace. “The lad ’as been recruited, pretty boy, and belongs to the king, and there ain’t a bleeding thing you can do about it.”

Pretty boy? This felt a little like that first year at school all over again.

The man was at least eight inches taller than Avery and at the very least twice his weight—more probably three times. His head had been shaved, and every inch of his body that was visible was pitted and scarred to show him for the great bruiser of a soldier he was.

Avery regarded him through his glass. It was not an attractive sight, especially when magnified, but it was an impressive one, and might well put the wind up a whole battalion of French soldiers, not to mention one pretty boy. The sergeant looked uneasy under the leisurely scrutiny, but, to his credit, he did not retreat by even a fraction of one inch.

“Quite so,” Avery said with a long-suffering sigh. “I will see my ward’s signature, my man.”

“I ain’t yur man, and I don’t ’ave to—” the sergeant began.

“Ah, but you will,” the Duke of Netherby informed him, sounding bored.

The recruiting paper was produced.

“As I thought,” Avery said after taking his time perusing it through his glass. “This is indeed my ward’s signature, but it is shaky, for all the world as though he had been coerced into writing it.”

“’Ere,” the sergeant said, frowning ferociously. “I don’t like your tone, guv, and I don’t like wot you are hinsinuating.”

“I assume,” Avery said, “one of the king’s shillings is at this moment nestled in one of my ward’s pockets?”

“Unless ’e ’as ate it,” the sergeant said.

The disgusting huddle snickered.

“Harry.” His Grace of Netherby stepped up to the boy, one hand outstretched. The other recruits were gawking again. A small but ever-growing crowd was gathering in a circle about them. “If you please.”

“Give it to ’im, ’arry,” someone in the crowd yelled, “and let the serge take ’im instead of you. The Frogs would eat ’im for tea, they would.”

There was a wag in every crowd.

Harry produced the battered shilling and handed it over. “I’ve signed, Avery,” he said. “I’m going to be a soldier. It’s all I’m good for. It’s what I want to do.”