She came back into the room just then and, seeing him with his eyes closed, said briskly, “You need your tea!” and proceeded to pour him a cup.

Hamish said, “A wee dram o’ whisky would do more good.”

The whisky came at the Hamiltons, a stiff drink that Lawrence Hamilton handed him with the admonition “You’ll need this!”

Elizabeth had gone upstairs to speak to Lydia, and the two men were alone in the drawing room.

Rutledge said, “I hear Masters hasn’t been well.” He had met the man a time or two in the courts, but hardly knew him at all.

“No, he hasn’t. And it’s been difficult for him. Not only the loss of his limb, but the constant pain and the dragging down of his spirits. He had to give up the law, you know, and that was possibly worse than amputation. He loved his work.” Lawrence was square, fair, with a ruddy complexion. “Still, he’s a man of uncertain moods. Always was, for all I know, but now it’s noticeable. Lydia and Elizabeth and a few other friends have tried to make his illness bearable for Bella-”

He broke off as the maid ushered in another guest. Melinda Crawford swept into the room with grace, a tall woman, slim now with age, and wearing the evening dress of another reign: gray silk, with lace high to the throat and binding the sleeves at her wrists. Her white hair, piled high in shining waves, was still thick, and the handsome blue eyes were unclouded. The beautiful ebony cane in her left hand was more affectation than necessity.

She greeted her host with warmth, and then regarded Rutledge with interest. “You survived the war, then. Why haven’t you been to see me?”

Rutledge answered, “First I had to find my way back into civilian life.” But it was Hamish that he had wanted to hide from her. Melinda Crawford had seen war, had nursed the wounded and comforted the dying when she was only ten; her experience was so vast that he had been afraid she would instantly read his secret in his eyes.