But it was time to end this, before the girl's suspicions became aroused. Hamilton shook his head. "No, it's simply that I think the Americans have different customs."
He gave Andrew a quick, meaningful glance.
"I'm sure that's the reason, too," her brother said reassuringly. "I inquired with Lady Mailey, you know. They were a wealthy enough people that they got married quite young. Not like us. So they'd wait—were supposed to, at least, and Darryl's a good lad—until they were actually married."
That was twaddle, of course. Not the generalities—Hamilton had inquired himself, not from Lady Mailey but Captain Simpson—but its application to Darryl. Simpson hadn't come right out and labeled McCarthy a tomcat, but he'd said enough in the way of warning that Hamilton had made sure the girl was watched carefully until McCarthy finally betrothed her. Ironically, his only concern thereafter had been that the American might view his betrothal casually. Hamilton knew their customs were different there, also.
Ironic, indeed, in light of what he now understood.
"You really think that's all it is?" Victoria asked. She seemed aggrieved and mollified at the same time.
"Oh, yes. But now I need to talk privately with Andrew, Victoria."
She rose from the table and left immediately. More slowly, Andrew came over and took the chair she'd vacated.
He started to say something. But then, seeing the distant expression on the Warder captain's face, he fell silent.
Stephen Hamilton was distant, indeed, for a time. Not dwelling on his past—it was not one he liked to think about, except for those few years after he met Jane—but simply letting its essence saturate him. He'd passed through a hell that had left nothing much of the tough young man from a tough background who'd begun the journey. Just a cold, hard predator who'd luckily managed to find a pack of his own. That was now his only lifeline to humanity.
And even that was conditional. Stephen Hamilton would accept duty, well enough. Not because he cared about leashes but simply because he found a certain personal comfort in restraints. That comfort removed, his view of the world was very stark and very simple.
There were two sorts of people. Two, and only two.
His, and everyone else.
"Good God!" Andrew suddenly exclaimed, pulling Hamilton back into the kitchen. From the look on the Warder's face, he'd finally worked his way through the puzzle.
"He's planning an escape, Stephen. That's why he's afraid to get Victoria pregnant."
Hamilton shook his head. "Not exactly. Yes to the second, no to the first. Yes, that why he's restrained himself. But, no, he's not planning an escape. He's expecting one."
Andrew's head turned, in the direction of St. Thomas' Tower. Hamilton had no difficulty following his thoughts. Who knew what devices the Americans had with them? Wentworth had never ordered a search of their quarters. Who knew if they'd been able to stay in touch with their people back on the continent? And if they had, who knew what might be coming to the Tower? Stephen and Andrew had not only heard the accounts, they'd spoken to veterans returned from the continent. Yes, it was true that Wallenstein had been struck down from a range that was not known for certain—but it was certainly longer than the Thames was wide.
"What do you want to do?" asked Andrew. He gave his older kin a look that was quite hard itself.
"Can't see where it's any of our business, any longer," said Hamilton. "Seeing as how our superiors have not seen fit to trust us."
Andrew nodded. "The way I see it too." His gaze went back to the wall of the kitchen that faced St. Thomas' Tower and, after a moment, softened a great deal.
"This speaks well of my future brother-in-law, I'm thinking."
Hamilton could feel the latch closing, and knew that he'd come to his decision. Somewhere in that bleak and savage wasteland within the Warder captain that other men would call a soul, a young American had just completed a journey. He'd passed over from one of them to one of mine.
"Oh, yes," said Hamilton softly. "It speaks very well of him indeed."
Chapter 27
Amiens
Picardy, France
March 1634
After stomping into the office that Robert du Barry and Yves Thibault maintained for their new arms manufactory, shrugging out of his winter coat and hanging it on a peg, Henri de la Tour d'Auvergne glared at his two subordinates. Or glared in their direction, at least.
"The Vicomte de Turenne seems in a foul mood today," said du Barry. The French cavalry office's tone of voice was mild.
His civilian gunsmith partner looked up from the sketches on the table. "Must be the local Picards pissed him off again, the way they butcher the French language. Or maybe he just doesn't like every building made out of dark red brick."